Of Hawks and Feathers
by Victoria LeRoux
Summary: Natasha finds out his secret because she's probably psychic, and suggests what has to be the worst practical joke ever. In which Clint shapeshifts, Coulson is a BAMF, and Natasha holds grudges. Obvious AU


Summary:

Natasha finds out his secret because she's probably psychic, and suggests what has to be the worst practical joke ever.

From Prompt: 'Hawkeye' is not just a cliché codename for a marksman: Clint can shapeshift between human and hawk form. He is mostly the same in sapience and intelligence but a bit more subject to instinct(ual reactions) when in bird form, while when inhabiting his human brain he (usually) has those under more control.

Notes:

Yeah, I don't even know about this one. As always, super thanks to TBB. :) Cross posted to AO3.

* * *

He's never really questioned – or protested, for that matter – that Natasha's always known what he was. It might have simply been because it was Natasha, or because if Coulson knew, his partner deserved to know as well.

So maybe he never _actuall y_told her - maybe she just started flinging questions at him fast enough that he had no choice but to answer.

It was then that Natasha came up with the absolute worst joke ever _geared_ toward Coulson, and considering he was there the day she lit his paperwork on fire to get him to relax a bit, that's saying quite a bit.

* * *

They're on a stakeout in Budapest, and he's just starting to feel claustrophobic because he can't see the sky when Natasha suddenly begins a conversation.

It's not a simple, "hey, how are you doing?" because Natasha isn't one for small talk.

She jumps right into it just as Clint takes a bite out of his dry sandwich and tries to chug down another gulp of Sprite with it.

"So how long have you been shapeshifting?" she asks, her voice so casual and sudden that it takes Clint a moment to realize what she just asked him. He begins to choke on his sandwich; bread and Sprite clog up his throat as he tries to protest, swallow, and sputter in surprise all at the same time.

By the time he's able to breathe again, she looks like she's considering the Heimlich and he's wondering why he thought partnering with her was a good idea.

"What – huh – I don't even – how?" he tries, the words a garbled mess of denials and protests as he tries to recover.

She looks smug, infuriatingly so, and that's when he realizes that she's running a feather through her fingers.

One of his, now that he takes a good look at it.

His eyes are watering from pain as he tries to speak coherently. "What are you talking about?" he asks with a wary edge to his tone, simply because it's Natasha, and if there's one thing Natasha can't stand, it's being lied to.

"You," she points the feather at him and he tries not to wince. "Hawk." She mimes a little wing-like motion with her hands, making his jaw open so widely he feels it pop. "Now chew."

He complies and swallows the last gulp of offending food, still trying to figure out where Natasha's contacts come from to be able to get information like this, because the only person still alive who knows about his shapeshifting is Coulson. The only conclusion that he's able to draw up is that one of them must be psychic.

"Huh?" he says at long last, far too late for his protest to have any impact whatsoever. It's not like it would have mattered; Natasha knew he was going to lie before he even opened his mouth.

The feather's cut in half now, shorn into pieces by the knife Natasha is cleaning her fingernails with. It's times like this where Clint is suddenly, and very eerily, aware that Natasha used to be an assassin and involved in more black ops than Fury could dream of SHIELD getting approval for.

She gives a long, harsh sigh, and that's all it takes for Clint to start spilling before she decides to get creative.

"All my life," he admits, deciding he'll go for the same blunt honesty she afforded him when she admitted her long list of crimes.

She gets that little mischievous gleam in her eye, the one that signals she's setting up some kind of trap for him to fall into.

"Are you still-" she makes an awkward waving motion with her free hand, but Clint knows what she's getting at.

"Almost all Clint when I let the little guy out?" he asks and she nods, face absolutely closed off and not telling him a thing. "Yeah. I am."

He wonders if the silence is as awkward for her as it is for him.

Probably not. It's most likely a deliberation machination on her part.

"Never thought to tell me?" she asks, and he winces at the comment. He's starting to worry, starting to wonder if maybe this partner thing he was just getting used to is going to be a complete failure before he even gets it off its feet. The fear is coiling within him, making him want to burst out of the car and get some distance between the two of them so he won't have to pretend that failing still hurts just as much as it did the first time.

"It never seemed entirely relevant at the time," he admits carefully wishing that he knew all the right words to say.

They return to silence and he continues to sweat, leg beginning to jiggle up and down as he tries to release the growing tension.

She still has that gleam in her eye when their target is comes out of the building, and when she tells him, "We need to talk," he knows that he isn't going to like what happens later.

* * *

Good news: She isn't going to kill him.

Bad news: She's kinda pissed.

She tells him the plan, and it is without a doubt the worst plan he's ever heard.

But he smiles and agrees to go along with it anyway, because one doesn't simply say no to the Black Widow and he thinks that he owes her anyway after hiding this from her for so long. If it means that this partnership, this sense of stability and rightness is going to stay if he goes through with it, he's willing to do almost everything it takes.

* * *

Clint's doing small wheels in the air and reflecting that this is the worst idea ever and he's a sucker for going along with it, when he hears the ear-splitting whistle pierce the air. He gives Natasha a glare – she didn't need to whistle that loudly, did she? – but plummets down like he's spotted a piece of prey on the ground.

Technically, it is a piece of prey. Just not the type he'd normally go for.

As he's dive-bombing through the air and his stomach's rumbling with thoughts of a plump mouse, Coulson looks up and meets his gaze, making the bottom of his once-hungry stomach drop out as the man's eyes widen just a little in surprise.

Worst. Idea. Ever.

* * *

He's dangling upside down like a freakin' bat in Coulson's too-strong grasp and trying to get loose as the man holds him impassively. Somewhere he knows Natasha's laughing at him for being such a sucker, but right now he's more concerned by the deadpan look on Coulson's face as he holds a screeching, writhing hawk in his hands.

Clint's trying not to hurt him, but it's hard and it hurts, and being grabbed straight out of the air just freaks him out in general, and that's why the situation is going downhill pretty quickly. He knows he's thrashing, knows that Coulson doesn't want to drop him on his head like last time he crashed a landing, but then Coulson accidentally misjudges the direction of one of Clint's yanks and grabs a wing, then it's good-bye sanity, and hello full-blown panic.

He's not entirely sure what happened, but there's a burst of blood in his beak and he bursts free, one wing clipping Coulson in the face. Clint tries to settle, tries to relax, but it takes Coulson holding out his arm for Clint to perch on and saying something ridiculously soothing out for him to land gently on the man's limb and attempt to relax.

His heart is beating in his chest because the long-buried memory of his wings being tied in place is tugging at him, and his talons are probably gripping the agent's arm too tightly to be comfortable. He can feel the fabric splitting under his talons, and knows that later he'll feel sorry for it.

Clint settles, but can't relax, tension thrumming through his veins as he hears Coulson issue a small apology for the panic. The familiar sensation, almost like preening, ripples over him as Coulson gently strokes his feathers. The archer is probably wild-eyed with fear, but his handler knows how to soothe his terrors well.

"Sorry," the man is murmuring. "I wasn't expecting an attack by hawk when I got out of the car."

Clint's shivering slightly, but relaxing. The feeling of the wind on his primaries is enough to remind him that no, he and Coulson aren't in captivity any more, and a ripple of contentment goes through him.

That's the point when he figures that he's never going to let himself feel in debt to Natasha again.  
_


End file.
